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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200858">The Sexton (Part 1) Inhale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedspindle/pseuds/twistedspindle'>twistedspindle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sexton [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Archaic, Death, Zombie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:29:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200858</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedspindle/pseuds/twistedspindle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Origin unknown was there something lurking about the ironclad cemetery just across the street from the main character's office; something not of the land or that of the living, but rather an odd place in between. Read the main character's struggle as they solve the mystery of what lies in the middle ground between life and death, the cemetery and the office.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sexton [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Sexton (Part 1) Inhale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Origin unknown beest there something disturbed lurking about yond ironclad necropolis. Did it all start the day of the funeral, as the cemetery is but a few paces hence as were mine eyes entangled in its unravelling. Wast I hard-working at mine writingdesk, the dances of rain tapping on the sill to which my attentions were drawn. ‘Twas a memorial drab as mine parchment’s scribblings, but a rogue stroke did striketh down upon those words, igniting the air to which such radiance not could I see ink upon mine page, their screams deafened by the roar of lightning. Not to which had they stopped, for lo and behold, remain did the electricity, writhing atop the casket. Henceforth did the madness ensue yet for not a moon later hath he arrived; from that day forth came the Sexton.</p>
<p>Peradventure employed to maintain the curséd grave wast unbeknownst to the likes of a mere civilian, but only speculations couldst one make, for, grant thee mercy to yond groundskeeper, mine soles hath married the office as that of the casket did the earth, sealed by a veil of soil just as the door behind me. To this should I not bat an eye, and to that yet did I yield for just as that did I act and, in fact, from the crookback did I refrain judgment. Whence he’d came had yet to reveal itself, nor dost one probe such a deprivéd carl, and yet more deprivéd did his state become.</p>
<p>	… </p>
<p>Had his state not yet remained withstanding would I have expressed mine worries, but as fate declares did his stance abide yonder, for he’d held a stethoscope to the town’s heart would he hath heard bruits of the undead; by that which those bruits justified be the sir put to rest that day met a carriage kissing his spine. Could it not be a coincidence that this Sexton’s back be contorted unnaturally dwelled in that of the people’s minds; to say that I am above the social consciousness would be a sin, as mine thoughts float about the depths of its water, fallen victim to such murmurs of the heart. O' how dost mine breast chatter and quake beneath the cast of the monolithe’s shadow to which it lies o’er the heart, encased in that late forest; a stump by the creek succumbed to that same illness of mortuity.</p>
<p>And no longer did it take for my suspicions to become inflamed than that of his features. No longer than a fortnight did those fingers inflate to frankfurts. At each moment had his cloak perspired with alchemical toxins and bubbles folding his skin to the likes of which I couldst never imagine. Nay, shall his face penetrate the inner sanctums of my mind, for what gods govern life after death hath decreed it so! For woe to which hathn’t I seen his visage but merely imagine his seeping eyes enveloped by inflamed bags o’er the leaking cheeks of a bloated corpse, yet hath those marbles may mine. To myself, I thought “Shall one abstain from scorn only for mine curiosity's sin to possess it!” So there I refrained judgement, divulging mine attentions from this disturbed being lurking in the grave, for an entire week at that. But O, how broth doth boil at the bottom of that ocean; ‘twas but a matter of time until it all came crashing down.</p>
<p>	… </p>
<p>As the pressure of the Sexton’s presence looming over mine shoulder became ever stronger, he began to deflate, as did thine ocean’s shoreline. But whither one line falls, another rises; and at which hour thee may decompress, my drift to the alter’ coast hath sucked me beneath its surface of the flote. Whence thee breathe I drown, and whither yond damned sexton shrinks, his grave presence weighs on mine shoulders enow to maketh but a stain of ink upon the parchment of me. He will strike me down once he fades away just as the lightning his casket, for all who hath seen the carriage of death, kiss him at each moment known yond curséd strike of god hath condemned mine soul to his carriage's kiss drawn by those horsemen of the apocalypse! His rot will infect mine vision until all I see is but those sunken, dry eyes of which I can only dread. And only then will I realize that thou which art deceased hathn’t swallowed the elixir of death but rather death hath swallowed them and O' dost I drown in its elixir of insanity, of madness and death, whilst thunder rolls across the sky above to which no longer hath the sun shine down upon mine skin. No longer wil’t shine upon that grave which its host so carefully protects but only by the rage of Zeus. No longer will the Sexton keep the grounds of his resting place but rather his fashioned host, the marionette of whom hath written upon this very page. No longer will the dead remain living, for thee unholy vessel shall decompose along with the sanity enduring them. For nought shall I continue to write, as mine inkwell hath run dry.</p>
<p>	…</p>
<p>The situation was beyond the capabilities for someone of mine likeness, so I had gone to those endowed with such powers: the church. To sayeth I felt the crashing waves of hysteria cease as the cathedral’s light shone through the stained glass flood through the doors as they swung ope would be an understatement. I believe ‘twas following Thursday’s noon eight hours hence, to my luck the priest hath endured his attendance. To him, I had caterwauled “O' Father, privy to thee holy crested breast dost I plead for knowledge. Beest thither something unholy about yond grave. How it troubles mine thoughts to knoweth yond which is dead lurks amongst the living! Be thee mine bearer of fain tidings for mine predicament.”</p>
<p>To that one of the serfs broketh thee prayer to retort “I beggeth thy pardon but the Sexton is undead? Beest this news to the town.” At that moment, mine heart plunged further into the depths of the elixir. Could be true my mind is as clouded as its fog? Were’t a fool may I have felt less dread and to that it did lessen the blow. Ne’ertheless did it tear me in two. Had I truly gone mad? Was mine paranoia for nought or were thee ignorant to the happening of the town? Beest thither any crepuscular rays to shineth upon the waters and if’t not be true not the oar of Charon? Beest thither any valorous being to save me from death’s panged, hungry eyes? Is’t I who’th fallen to mine knees or rather Death drawing them towards thee breasts?</p>
<p>The moment there the priest had sat still with pearly eyes fixed far beyond the horizon my mind ran amok with the notion that those eyes were’t a foreshadowing of thee soul in heaven, but nay, for broken his stare had told he to me “Worry not, Sir, for I shalt investigate this matter myself half-past dusk.” O’ how his reassurement surfaced me; I couldst finally breathe beneath the vibrant light shone through the storm clouds above me. Following the granting thee of mine mercies to thine Father, to mine home I flew. The manic pendulum had been struck forthwards by the priest but was soon volleyed back whence I’d noticed something peculiar about the Sexton: he had vanished.</p>
<p>	… </p>
<p>An ordinary person would beest elated, but I suppose that title no longer was applicable to one of the likes of me, for not was I fain but rather mortified. This disappearance could have only mean one of two things: the Sexton hath had a second death or it hath wandered to pursue me. In either case, I’d have wasted the priest’s time and have me committed for madness! Out of desperation, I’d darted into the cemetery. ‘Twas dusk and I’d all but thirty minutes until the priest would arrive. The place wreaked of stone and rot moo-so than the usual, and about the stricken grave lay a shred of black cloth. I thought nothing of it but a scorched handkerchief in mourning of the late sir buried that fateful day, so I continued mine investigation. Behind every nook and cranny I had come dry. The sands of time shifting about the dunes lining the shore eroded mine patience to the point of mania. In a final act of desperation did I clepe, “Whither art thou, Sexton?” As soon as my cry rang out against the iron fence, a pang of horror riddled down mine spine as I realised the cloth was that of the Sexton’s cloak; he was thither. I’d fallen for a gull, I’d been fooled and at that moment, mine life was on the line; the line between the shore and the sea of madness, and no one was about the streets to save me.<br/>
…<br/>
I’d swiveled about mine heels to catch sight of a dark silhouette about the mausoleum. Nought was it the priest, for the walk from hither beest five minutes. Was’t but a figment of mine phantasmagoric hallucinations not was I sure in that moment, but a rogue stroke had struck upon the etchéd words of the tomb to bewray his visage. ‘Twas worse than I had imagined before, for not was there skin — nay, only that of bone and tissue, gums extending into the exsufflicate eye sockets shying hence from rotting, yellow teeth. And those eyes, o’ those eyes! Were’t wooden marbles drove into a crater, not couldst I telleth the difference. Those hungry eyes and sickening smile strewn upon his face were the same as that of death’s and in that moment, I’d known certes yond deceased omen was a marionette of death itself. He’d begun to approach me with open arms, his chap hanging on but threads as was the raggedy cloth on those skeletal arms. But upon his gravestone had another strike of lightning illuminated the most unsettling thing of all, for upon yond stone read mine name.</p>
<p>To this I was and am currently unsure as to its accuracy, but what followed had supported it as reality. I’d doubted mine visions as but paranoia , fallacies of a troubled mind as I turned to flee the scene. “Nought can this be true! This just must be but a dream!” cried I. And as I flew through the twisted gates of the necropolis, there was the priest. “O’ Father, thank god hath thee arrived!” I told as mine tremulous finger spun to the demon. “There standeth he!” I knew I was not but a madman, for he’d seen the true evil close at hand wherefore I praised him. As he began the exorcism as I’d peeled from the grave, a sharp teen rang between mine ears. Nought was he exorcising the undead, for thou which art not living hathn’t a soul to exorcise. As the Sexton approached the helpless priest, I’d confusedly stumbled into the street, distracted by the roaring peal inside mine skull. I looked onward upon those decrepit fingers wrapped about the priest’s neck, and mine hands sizzled with anguish. Was it not he who was being exorcised but I. Nought did I hear his cries for mine burning hands seared mine ears. And nought did I hear the hooves of the carriage drawn by the horsemen of the apocalypse galloping forth, for had I heard, not would the elixir of death hath kissed me.</p>
<p>	… </p>
<p>Mine life was but a series of images. The image of my first love, and first heartbreak. The image of complete halcyon and turbulent waters none the wiser dost I tread. The image of mine first dollar hand to me by the Mister Pines who’th employed me at the office, and the image of gazing into the bottom of a coin purse. The image of writing mine first word and that of my last. And then finally, the image of mine first breath taken and my last given back to the earth. Thou which art living can not appreciate the spectacular image of life without the sky of Death looming over it, just as thou which art swallowed by Death shant appreciate its magnanimity without the breath of life, for not can thy life breath without its first inhale and last exhale. And O’ how overwhelming be it so at which second God strips the body of the mind as it is tossed across the street like a crumpled script of parchment. Heed this as a warning, for it is much better to inhale with gratitude than to exhale without.</p>
<p>The sensation of being attacked by something not yet of this world all at once is deeply troubling. In the second of quiet reflection, wondered I, “Why me? What profanities against God hath I screamed. For what reason hath Death chosen me to torment, of all people? Hath I not lived a pure life ere to the Sexton’s arrival? O’ Father in Heaven, why does thou beateth thy children so, and to what remark beest thy silence justified, for nought shall it be thee who’th summoned a demon to strangle a priest not astrange of thy holy word? Be it thee or Satan who purches atop a throng of the late, observing as their entrails tremulously writhe beneath thy toes? Not am I sure what is holy and what is not anymore, and I pray thou will guide mine soul to the afterlife.”</p>
<p>	… </p>
<p> As the dusted blood settled on the cobbled grave, waiting for me stood the Sexton, the puppet of Death, by the entrance to the tomb. I turned to run, but there I saw mine mangled corpse ground into the pavement: its limbs twisted into an unidentifiable mass with not a face, and a carriage which had never graced the eyes of the sane and living, nor wil’t ever. I stood, paralyzed by my own body, paying no attention to the undead approaching me. At that point, not did I care for what would happen to me next, for one loses their sole purpose for existing when that soul is stripped from its existence. The tension was rising as he inched closer to me, but there I remained, unmoving, gazing emptily yet emotionally all at once. A cold, wet touch upon my shoulder dripping with  blood trickled down mine jacket as I turned to face the Sexton. To that, he gestured to that monolithic mausoleum, and ushered me to mine afterlife.</p>
<p>	…</p>
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